In 1978, I designed a project to ask the question,
"Can the telephone be a medium for art?" To do this, I had an announcer
machine. It's like an answering machine, except it didn't ask for a
message at the beep. When a caller dialed the number, It simply played
a tape of 3 minutes duration or less and hung up. A number of artists
made tapes to put on the machine for a two week period. Only artists,
poets and musicians who were Creative spirits who were capable of
profound expressions, Individuals who would recognize the potential of
the situation and could design an experience that would break new
ground were invited to make a phone event tape.
Bob Caskey was such a person.
His Phone Event went on the line
August 27, 1978. It consisted of 3 minutes of beeping sounds. Most
callers didn't recognize that it was a message in Morse Code.
Unfortunately Bob never gave me a written translation, so I have to
content myself with my memory of what he told me it was. As I recall,
the translation was something like "Paid round trip transportation to
New York and lunch at the Guggenheim, second weekend in December. See
message for Starless in September 20, Detroit News Personals and follow
the clues . See you in NYC. Trebor."
Trebor, of course, is Robert spelled backwards.
On Wednesday, September 20, 1978, a three line item appeared in the
Personals on page 14 D of the Detroit News Classified ads.
It can be revealed now that D.I.A. is art code for the Detroit
Institute of Arts and due west of it lies the Detroit Public Library -
Main Branch. Before the ad appeared, Caskey borrowed a book by Harold
Rosenberg with the Dewey Decimal designation of 701.18 R7230.
He planned to insert into the book a prepaid round trip train ticket
and a note inviting the person who followed the clues to lunch at the
Guggenheim Museum in New York City.
However, he ran into a problem.
I forget why, but he couldn't purchase the ticket. I don't remember if
it was that the train didn't go there any more, or the ticket wasn't
for sale that far ahead or what it was, but he couldn't get the ticket.
So he put the cash in the book, something like $160, which was a piece
of change for us back in 1978.
On that Sunday, he headed down to the library at Woodward and Kirby. He
intended to go up to the second floor where the fine arts books are
and, at five after one o'clock, ten minutes before the appointed time,
place the book in its proper place on the shelf in the stacks.
When he got there and saw the abundant parking spaces out front and the
darkened main entrance, it hit him.
The Library is closed on Sundays!
After a moment of panic, he looked around. No one else was on the
esplanade that led to the entrance. No one was sitting on the stairs or
the stone ledge surrounding the lawn. No one sitting in a parked car.
If someone had deciphered the Morse Code and correctly interpreted the
personal ad, they hadn't showed up yet.
So, at five after one, Caskey walked up to the main entrance and placed
the book, with its cash and note, against the library's locked door. He
then walked back to his car parked in front. it was about 100 feet from
the door where he could watch the book. He got in, sat, waited and
watched. Nothing happened. A few pedestrians walked down Woodward
Avenue, but none turned to approach the library.
Pigeons pecked at cracks in the steps.
Caskey waited.
At precisely 15 minutes past one o'clock, a figure walked around the
corner of the library and headed for the front door. Good. Somebody did
figure it out. Now they were here to claim the prize. A man, shabbily
dressed, his shoes too big and a tattered too small suit jacket,
stretched over a hooded sweat shirt.
Caskey thought he could be an artist but.... maybe not. The man spied a
trash
can near the entrance and shuffled over to it. He rummaged through the
top layer of trash with a particular interest in the food containers.
Caskey figured he's probably not a artist and he's probably not here
because he figured out the clues.
The book was in plain sight 20 feet away but the man was facing away
from the entrance. The man found nothing edible in the discards. He did
turn up two redeemable pop cans. He shook out a balled up plastic bag
from his pocket and put the cans in it. He turned and walked toward the
library entrance.
Caskey might have thought "That's it! There goes the money."
This situation probably felt familiar to Caskey. It was like the other
"money pieces" he did. At some point, they spin out of control. Stuff
happens. Unforeseen events take twists and turns that no one
anticipated. And it's at that point that they get most interesting.
Like the sculpture of fragile balsa wood strips Caskey constructed
around a fifty dollar bill. It was impossible to remove the fifty
without
damaging the construction. He put it in a group show at a university
gallery and instructed the staff not to interfere with anyone taking
the fifty dollars. Which was probably unnecessary since university art
galleries
have practically no security anyway.
He promised that he would make no claim against the gallery for loss or
damage. Shortly after the exhibit opened, the
fifty dollars was taken. The balsa
wood construction was damaged in the process. The piece became the
center of a huge controversy. People accused Caskey of tempting some
poor weaker soul into crime. Others defended him saying that he was
making the point that for some in our society, money is more important
than art. The gallery came under intense criticism from people who
accused it of colluding with Caskey by encouraging theft.
His supporters asked how was it a theft if the money was placed there
with the intention that someone take it and its owner not object? His
detractors said the sculpture was now broken, an ugly reminder of the
criminal act Caskey had instigated. His defenders claimed that the
damaged construction was part of the process of the piece and that art
can be broken and ugly and still be good art.
The gallery asked Caskey to remove his sculpture from the show. He
refused. It was only after the threat of a walk-out by many of the
other artists in the show that the gallery relented and permitted the
sculpture to remain for the duration. The affair was talked about for
weeks.
Caskey also remembered the time that instead of cash, he put a hundred
dollar
check made out to "cash" on a plate in a show and again got the gallery
staff to agree not to interfere. He knew that if it were stolen, the
thief would have to sign it to cash it and he would, unlike his
previous "money pieces" at least learn the name of the individual who
took it.
But, at the opening of the show, one of the dumber artists present got
the idea that if enough people signed the back of the check, there
would be no room for the thief to endorse it and thus the check would
be rendered valueless. This benighted artist convinced a large number
of other artists at the opening to endorse the check and return it to
its plate.
Again arguments arose about the morality of the sculpture. The
instructions to the staff not to interfere were condemned as an
invitation to crime. Others defended them as necessary to remove legal
restrictions and thus create a pure tension between a person's desire
for the money and that person's real integrity. In any case, the focus
and controversy on that slip of paper resting on the plate dominated
the event. Two days later the check went missing. Two months later the
check was cashed and Caskey got it back from the bank.
Unfortunately, because of all the names on it, Caskey was unable to
identify which signature was the thief's.
I'm afraid I must confess I am that dumb artist who thought everyone
signing it was a good idea.
Back at the library, the man with the shoes too big suddenly stopped.
He looked around as if he were being observed. He spied another trash
can on a distant corner. He walked to it, rummaged thru it, and
disappeared forever around the corner of Farnsworth and Woodward.
Caskey waited until twenty five minutes after one, then he walked to
the library`s
entrance and retrieved Harold Rosenberg with the money.
For me, there was always something mysterious about Caskey.
I remember him saying " Life is like throwing a boomerang into the
night."
I sensed a vast interior I was never really privy to. he seemed
uncomfortable talking about himself.
I never heard him say a lot about his art, what it meant to him or why
he did certain things.
He never revealed to me how he felt about the
reaction of others to what he did as an artist.
But there is one thing I know.
I know that that winter of 1978, on Fifth Avenue,
Robert Caskey completed his Phone Event art project.
He went to the Guggenheim Museum and ate lunch.
Bob Caskey also collaborated
with me on a "hitchhiker"
project.
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